I'd Trade All of my Tomorrows
by rebuild-your-ruins
Summary: Sherlock is killed by Moriarty. John misses him dearly, until, Sherlock comes back. Will the appearance of Sherlock's ghost be a blessing, or will it drive John completely mad? ShWatsonlock.
1. Chapter 1

I'd Trade All Of My Tomorrows

Shwatsonlock fic

I do not own Sherlock.

Ch.1

The ground behind him is canvassed a dark scarlet as a bullet crashes through Sherlock's forehead. He drops to the ground almost instantly, his face remaining stoic. I see his liquefied eyes lock on me as he falls. He hit the ground face down, the tense of his muscles soothe away as the ghost of one last breath glides between his paling lips.

**All goes black.**

** . . .**

I stare out the window of my hospital room. I see the people walking calmly, untouched by the tragedy crushing at my mind. It's only been one day since Moriarty's bullet crushed Sherlock's brilliant mind, destroying his life, and creating a ghost of his soul.

I can't believe it's only been a matter of hours since the last time my eyes met those of Sherlock's, since I felt a warm feeling as my hand brushed against his chilled fingers, since I realized my undying love for him. I miss him. I miss him more than anything, more than everything. He's etched himself into my mind, so that the only thing I can think of, the only thing my mind can truly rest upon is one thing. Him.

The urge to sleep claws at my mind; but I'm afraid. I fear sleeping because I know the only thing I'll see is Sherlock. My mind will allow nothing else, there's nothing left for me to imagine. Even nightmares of Afghanistan cannot compare to those of Sherlock Holmes.

I think try to focus on things outside my window, things on the other side of my glass barrier. But I can't. everything reminds me of him.

'_Sherlock's eyes were the exact same color as the sky is today.'_ I think.

Suddenly, I find myself wondering if Sherlock sees me right now. If he misses me as much as I miss him. If-

''I do miss you greatly, John.'' I hear someone say. Quickly I look up, positive it was Sherlock who had spoken, for no one could mimic such a smooth, deep voice. I feel the tears sting at my eyes as I realize there really isn't anyone else in the room. The tears fall freely as I realize I have no one left to expect anyway. My thoughts fade and scatter as the nurse enters the room.

''Mr. Watson?'' I don't look up. ''You're free to go now. Your clothes are on the chair.'' And she leaves.

I stand up and change. I decide to look at myself in the bathroom mirror before I make my leave. I immediately regret that. I look like a complete loon. Deep, dark, bags make themselves comfortable under my eyes, which are red around the rims. My hair is sticking out around my head, each and every hair standing on end erectly.

''Ugh. I look terrible.'' I mumble to myself in a low whisper.

''Wrong.'' I hear the voice again. This time, I whirl around alertly. Still though, no one's there. I shake my head and look down. I'm positive it was Sherlock's voice I heard. There's no way it wasn't. The pitch of the voice, the soft rumble in his throat he makes directly before speaking. It was all too perfect.

I sigh, feeling the tears eat away at my tired eyes again before I turn and as I walk away I hear the voice- no- **his **voice mutter,

''**I'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday with you, John.''**

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading. Erin, the word 'erectly' used in the beginning was used entirely for you. I don't think this fan fic will really cut it, so please review telling me if you'd like more or if this is a terrible fan fic. Just think, all you need to do in order to save a fan fic is REVIEW._


	2. Chapter 2

Ch.2

As much as I wanted to avoid it, my first actions led me directly back to 221b Baker Street. There's really nowhere else for me to go anyway. Sarah would only try to comfort me, and I'm simply not in the mood. Harry's house is too far, not that I particularly want to see her anyway. And going to Bart's wouldn't be too good a plan either. Sherlock would be there by now. He donated his body to science, no doubt. Left his perfect mind to be dissected by some lunatic in a lab. He practically gave the heart I loved so dearly away to be sliced open and examined.

I open the door and climb the stairs quickly, not wanting a run-in with Mrs. Hudson. It'd be too hard. I unlock the door to our- no- **my **flat, and walk in. Everything is exactly as he left it. Experiments are sprawled across the kitchen table, empty tea cups sit on the floor. I don't look, but I know if I did, there'd be a severed head in the fridge. The experiment it was being used for left unfinished. I inch my way to the couch and sit down. There are newspapers littering the coffee table, red marker highlighting all interesting cases. (There aren't many.) I soon find the paper he had written on the night before his death. It's written in cursive, his spidery handwriting laced around the paper. I run my fingers along the curve and loops of his words. I sigh and glance down. I feel myself grow regretful as I see the one thing I was to avoid.

The center of his musical talent. The master of his concentration. One more reason for me to love him. His violin. His greatest treasure. The very object that kept me up all those nights. What once was hated is now lost, as well as missed. I grab the neck of the instrument gently and pull it close. The wood exterior is cold against my cheek, just as Sherlock's fingers were.

My lips brush against the violin as I double over, my tears falling and sliding down the instrument before hitting the floor. I cradle it in my arms as I lay back against the couch.

''You don't have to cry, John.'' The voice. It's back. I look up and my eyes meet silver irises. Obsidian curls growing like vines around the edges of a thin, pale, face.

A last tear drops as I stare in awe at Sherlock Holmes. He's there- directly in front of me. His eyes are slightly closed, causing a concerned look to grace his fine features.

''Sherlock…'' I murmur, hoping it's not just a dream. He stares back at me with those beautiful unique eyes. A smile graces his lips.

''I've missed you John.'' He says.

''You can't be real…'' I mutter, ''You died… I watched you die, Sherlock. Are you-''

''Real?'' he inquires. I nod hesitantly.

''**John, I am as real as you want me to be.''**

_A/N: Thanks for reading! I only got two reviews saying I should continue, but I continued nonetheless. Please review, I shall treasure your criticism (whether is be good or not)._

_SH_


	3. Chapter 3

Ch.3

I stand up and begin to stride towards Sherlock. Just as I had expected, he interprets the reason of my actions easily, and opens his arms. He becomes less transparent as I approach him. I immediately wrap my arms around him, and bury my face in his shoulder.

I feel no regrets as I sob into his shoulder. He wraps his arms gently around my own shoulders and I feel his plant a kiss in my hair. Choked sobs issue from my mouth as I cling to the one person I never imagined seeing again. I can't let go of him; if I do he might leave. I don't dare open my eyes; if I do he might not be there. He may not be here right now. He may not be real, just a mere figment of my imagination created simply to crush me. I was running on no sleep after all.

''I assure you, I won't disappear. And I wouldn't dare leave.'' He whispers, reading my thoughts. I open my eyes. He's still there, his rain coloured eyes staring down at me. A smile graces his lips again as I look at him.

''See?'' he says. I lay my head on his chest, grateful he hasn't disappeared.

''Why'd you take the bullet?'' I ask, after a moment of silence.

''Because I love you. I couldn't imagine life without you at the time. So I saved you the only way possible.'' He answers.

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading! Sorry for the short chapter, but there is definitely more to come. The next chapter is a flash back, just in case the 'why'd you take the bullet' part confused you. PLEASE REVIEW!_

_SH_


	4. Chapter 4

Ch.4

Moriarty laughs as he points the gun at me. I feel no fear, being in Afghanistan has showed me that there are far worse things than death. I simply stand there, I close my eyes, waiting silently for this all to end.

Sherlock is somewhere nearby, I know though I cannot hear him. I know Moriarty is taunting him; daring him to rebel against my foreseen execution. They're probably throwing words at each other, words with the consistency of daggers, though neither of them is feeling the other's threatened wrath.

I hear Sherlock scream. I feel something bump against me, and suddenly I smell the sickening scent of gun powder. The smell of gun powder can be rather bitter sweet if you think about it. It simply depends on which side of the gun is pointed at you. The scent of gun powder on my side of the gun is a problem, a mistake of some sort, just another thing to worry about. However, for Moriarty, the scent is delightful, a mere delicacy, and surely he can't get enough of it, the stench. It's an accomplishment on his part; a huge mistake on ours.

Something wet splatters across my face and I open my eyes. For a moment I believe I'm the one who's been shot, why else would I feel this tearing in my heart as I open I my eyes simply to see Sherlock laying at my feet, his melancholy eyes rolling back in his head, a pool of blood developing underneath him? The tears bite at my eyes as a wave of black unravels around me.

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading. This chapter was a flash back, not Moriarty randomly appearing in the flat. PLEASE REVIEW. You could tell me anything, just PLEASE. Review. For the children._

_SH_


	5. Chapter 5

Ch.5

'So did you hear me in the hospital?' Sherlock asks.

'I did, yes. Thanks for making me feel bloody insane, Sherlock, I appreciate it.' I mutter, smiling, so he doesn't take it the wrong way. He looks at the violin still on the table where I left it. The smile he hosts remains whilst he speaks.

'I really meant it, you know.'' He whispers. I look at him.

''What do you mean?'' I ask.

''the last thing I mentioned at the hospital. How I'd trade all of my tomorrows for one yesterday with you.'' He looks up, '' I really would, John.''

I cock my head to the side and smile. ''But Sherlock, you have no tomorrows left.''

''Don't I?'' he grins.

''Well I don't know, does a dead man have any tomorrows?'' I ask.

''Why, of course.'' He answers. ''they just spend them differently. No food, no sleep. Gets rather boring if you ask me.'' I smile.

''No food, no sleep. You're constantly bored. Doesn't sound like you're spending your days any differently.''

''I suppose you're right.'' He says, looking at the ceiling. ''And I didn't donate myself to science.'' He adds quietly, in a regretful tone.

I look up as my heart drops. ''I missed the funeral. Didn't I.'' I say whilst looking back at the floor.

''No,'' he says, ''it starts at noon.''

Immediately I pull out my phone. 11:37am. I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding.

''It's almost time.'' I say.

''Well you best go get ready.'' He says, looking at me.

I stand and climb the stairs to my room. I open my wardrobe to find a crisp black suit, a suit which I don't remember wearing once. I pull it out and slide it easily off its hanger. I stare at it, wondering if it'll even fit. I sigh and begin pulling off my jumper.

. . .

''Well don't you look handsome?'' Sherlock remarks as I walk briskly down the stairs. Luckily the suit fit; though it isn't exactly comfortable. I smile at him.

''Shut up. I can't get my bloody bowtie done up though.'' I say, glaring down at my limp bowtie. Sherlock smiles and strides toward me. His hands word at my tie, folding and puling at it until the once-limp article has morphed into a rather neat bowtie. He pecks my forehead lightly and looks at me, his smile not yet faded. I lace my arms around his thin waist and lay my head upon his chest.

''Why am I even going? I still have you. You haven't left.''

''Mm. people will worry if you don't.'' he mumbles as his eyes close.

''Are you coming with me?'' I ask him.

''Wouldn't it seem rather conceited of my if I attend my own funeral?'' he whispers.

**Guess I'm going alone.**

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading. Sorry this chapter really sucked. I've been suffering through a terrible case of writer's block. Please review._

_SH_


	6. Chapter 6

Ch.6

I didn't think it would bother me. I didn't think it would matter much. But when my eyes fall upon Sherlock's lifeless body I feel my heart shatter. I fall to pieces at the sight.

There is an abundance of people attending the funeral; and I feel every eye fall on me as I enter the building. Eyes which expect nothing of me but tears, no doubt. Expectant eyes follow me as I walk; I look nowhere but straight, refusing to give them what they want. I believe I'll make it; believe they won't witness me shed a single tear.

**But then I reach the coffin.**

My lips, which were connected so closely, part. My eyes observe every inch of Sherlock's soul-less body. His face is the colour of snow, the curls I had run my hands through so many times lay limply around his face. I notice the roses covering the coffin. Blood red petals detach and swim in the cool breeze blowing in from a nearby window.

I grasp the air and pull in a shaky breath. My hands clench into fists, a convenient yet subconscious way of stopping the flow of tears. I bite my lip rather harshly.

He's dressed in his favourite violet button-up, the one shirt which wasn't too baggy, or too tight; It fits his flawless body perfectly. I step up to the casket and look down on him. I know I'll see him as soon as I get home, that I'll hear his voice stride deep and smooth through the air, that I'll be able to drown in his observant eyes. But it won't be the same somehow.

I become aware of the tears falling from my eyes as they drop onto Sherlock's pale cheek. It falls and strikes the skin, then slithers down his cheek as well; causing it too look as if he's crying. The illusion grows stronger as the tears fall. I wipe my tears from his face with my thumb. His skin is cold, and a chill funs through me as my fingers come in contact with it.

I want to leave but I can't move. My eyes are locked on Sherlock, and I feel as if I am unable to leave him. To leave him alone. I lean over and kiss Sherlock's forehead before turning and walking away. At a glance I see Mycroft sitting in a chair beside the coffin. Not directly in front or beside it, but a short distance away. He stares at Sherlock with eyes drowning in their misery and sorrow. His red rimmed eyes watch with great intensity, as if he believes Sherlock will open his eyes, sit up and smile and tell Mycroft that it was all a big joke. But of course, his hopes are futile. His thoughts are nothing but fantasy. And even his dreams are meaningless now. As much as I wish the same would happen, I know it never will.

Mycroft props his elbows up onto his knees and runs his hands through his hair as I continue to watch. A girl with red-gold hair wraps her arms around him. She doesn't strike me as anyone I've met. It would usually be Anthea by his side, her fingers pecking feverishly away at her Blackberry. The girl's lips move softly, though I don't know what she's mumbling. Mycroft shakes his head and I notice his shoulders are trembling slightly. He's crying. It feels strange to see Mycroft showing his emotions so carelessly, he's easily the most collected man I've known. The ginger girl snuggles closer to him, resting her head against Mycroft's shoulder.

I soon find myself unable to stand any of this anymore. It sickens me, for some strange reason I can't quite point out. So I turn from it all and walk away from the building, a slight limp echoing in my footsteps.

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading! I like this chapter a lot, I think it might be the best one of the whole fic. The ginger in the chapter is in fact me, I have a thing for Mycroft so I included myself in this rather selfishly. PLEASE REVIEW. Please, I beg of you._


	7. Chapter 7

Ch.7

I slept with Sherlock that night. And I don't mean to say we did anything, we just slept. His arms intertwined around me and my head snuggled deep into his chest. I listen to hear a heartbeat, but realize my hopes of hearing one are futile. An innocent, disappointed feeling nudges its way into my mind each time I find myself searching. Straining my ears to hear something which no longer echoes. I suppose I could say Sherlock's heartbeat was my comfort blanket. It kept me going to know Sherlock was right beside me. And he still is; just not… physically. But he **is** here physically. I'm laying here, my head snuggled against his chest. There's just something off about it. Most likely, it's the fact that I'm not laying here with another person; but with a soul. A lost soul, one which was left alone to simply roam the land which caused its heartbreak and death.

But I suppose it caused other things for Sherlock too. England wasn't simply a sorrow-filled deathtrap for Sherlock. It was a place for happiness as well, even if the emotion didn't always shine through the brightest amongst other feelings.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at me. It feels as if he's staring straight through my head. Perhaps he is.

''You're right. England could make me happy at times. Especially if you were with me, John.'' His voice snakes through the air as he pushes his lips against mine. I respond by pushing back; the disappointed feeling I had felt soon replaced by a bubbly one as the clash of lips drags on.

Sherlock swiftly moves so that he's lying on top of me. His moves are so graceful that our lips do not part as he does so. I run my hands through his obsidian curls as I feel his tongue push through my lips and into my mouth. A low moan manages to issue from deep in my throat as I feel Sherlock's cock poke at my thigh. Sherlock suddenly pulls away and looks at me. My hands lock together behind his neck and I smile. His eyelids droop slightly before his eyes open all the way; his eye brows furrow, giving him a haunted expression.

''Sh-sherlock?'' I mumble. Blood drips from Sherlock's open mouth. Tears fall and mix with the blood dripping onto my cheek. Small pools of the mixture swim down my cheek as I watch in horror. Sherlock's melancholy-blue eyes slowly turn a dark shade of scarlet and his pupils morph so that his eyes appear almost cat-like.

The new demonic Sherlock grins, his eerie smile sends chills down my spine. He cocks his head to the side and he peers down at me almost thoughtfully. He places a hand on my cheek. His fingernails have been replaced with jet black claws, and he runs them down my face carefully. As he nears the end of my cheek he adds pressure so the new claws cut skin. I grimace as the blood begins to dribble onto my neck. My grimace grows as Sherlock laps it up almost happily. He places his tongue on the cur, and glides it down my neck, not missing one drop of blood.

He pulls away. My breathing is uneven. I watch Sherlock as he swiftly moves off the bed and stares at me. His head tilts again.

''It's all your fault, you know.'' Sherlock's voice sounds broken. It's not his usual deep voice striding smoothly and confidently through the air, but something which sounds completely different.

''It's your fault I'm still here. I couldn't pass on because of you. Everything is all. Your. **Fault.**'' He snarls the last two words at me. I feel my heart crumble. Sherlock's red eyes glisten in some unseen light. I turn my head. Flames are engulfing the room. I'm suddenly tied to the bed, the rope cutting at my wrists. I shout something, though I'm too out of it to know what the word are.

Blood dribbles down Sherlock's forehead. Soft lines of scarlet slither down and around his eyes. More blood makes its way down and around his eyes. More blood makes its way from his mouth. Sherlock sinks to his knees, his scarlet eyes slowly fade back into blue and he grips at his chest.

''I'm burning, John. Burning from the inside out. I'm dying all over again because of you John.'' He shrieks, his eyes opening wider, his hands gripping drastically at his chest until-

**I open my eyes.**

A slightly translucent Sherlock stares down at me, concern swimming in his eyes. His slender hands brush my sweaty hair out of my face. A shaky breath fills my lungs as I lay back. Tears slither from my eyes before I can stop.

''Was it Afghanistan?'' Sherlock wonders aloud.

''No… No, it was something even worse.'' I answer.

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading! I spent the whole time biting my lips while I was writing this. I was just going to have a big sex scene but it seemed sort of strange to write about a dude shagging a ghost. I've been suffering from writer's block lately, so if you think this chapter was bad, blame it on that. Please review so I know how I did, progress is important to me, and so are reviews. I love 'em._


	8. Chapter 8

Ch.8

''Worse than Afghanistan?'' Sherlock asks in a low whisper.

I make some sort of strange grimace and look down, frowning. I must send out some offended aura because Sherlock looks away almost awkwardly.

''I'm sorry…'' he mumbles quickly. ''You don't have to talk about it. I-''

I look up at him with a weak smile. ''Sherlock, it's alright.'' My voice is still slightly shaky. I look back down. Memories from the nightmare swim carelessly in my mind. I attempt to avoid them, I really do, but something in the back of my mind simply pushes them back into the light. Forcing my mind to recall the fear. Nightmares of Sherlock become even more torturous than those of Afghanistan. Suddenly nothing can compare to this immense fear. The face of a demonic Sherlock haunts my thoughts; his voice echoes throughout already fading memories. '_It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault.'_ It is. It is all my fault. The fact that Sherlock couldn't move on, the fact that he's still here with me, the fact that he has to continue to face the world, face the place he probably wishes he could leave behind. All my fault.

He looks down at me with regretful eyes. ''John?'' I don't look up. ''John… It was all a nightmare, okay? Everything is alright.'' He wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheek. I wish I hadn't been sweating; the kiss is most likely a moist on because of the fact that I was.

''Sherlock… it's-it's all my fault. Isn't it?'' I ask in a whisper.

''What's all your fault?'' he rests his head against the top of mine. I look up at him; fully aware of the hurt expression playing on my features.

''The fact that you're still here. That you couldn't… you know, move on.'' I bite my lip, already knowing the answer my nightmare so kindly granted me.

''John. I'm not here because I forbidden to go on. I could've moved on; but I knew you'd need help. Getting through it all, you know? I couldn't just have Mycroft help, first of all, he feels even less emotion than I do most of the time, and second, I didn't exactly have the time to ask that of him. And we both know he'd probably just kidnap to do said helping anyway. So I knew I had to do it. So I didn't move on. I stayed here. Because I couldn't stand the thought of your tears dropping without anyone there to wipe them from your face. I couldn't stand the thought of you having to sit alone every morning. And I couldn't stand the thought of you having to fight your own nightmares without anyone to assist you. I couldn't stand the thought of you being alone, John.''

I look at him. His answer genuinely surprises me. I expected him to be angry, to admit that yes, he was here only because his soul was stuck to me. Only because I was still here, and he was there in the beginning, he was forced to be there in the end. But he isn't. He doesn't have to be here; he chooses to be here, he chooses to stay by my side. And that just makes me love him even more.

''I was alone for so long, John. It was like… it was like I was lost in the darkness. Total and utter darkness. And I couldn't find my way out. I was stuck in a maze of dark, pure loneliness. But then you came along, John. You were the lantern that guided me out of the maze. The hero in the middle of my labyrinth. You saved me John. And I wanted to do the same for you.'' He finishes.

''Thank you. Thank you so much.'' I am unable to say anything else which could show the gratitude I feel for Sherlock Holmes. The man who at first I thought was rather arrogant, a lonely sociopath with no-one on his side. But no I understand why. His lonesome mind devoured his soul. It changed him. Having no-one caused him to believe he'd **never **have **anyone**. That he'd always be alone. That he'd always have to face the darkness by himself because honestly, no-one was willing to help. That became his state of mind, and it caused him not to get close to anyone because he believed they'd all just leave in the end. Obviously that was what happened with Mycroft. Their relationship simply faded, broken and offended in such a way which was in no way repairable. So since he refused to become close to anyone, no-one became close in return. His state of mind reflected evidently on his actions. And his actions resulted in the loneliness he loathed with such burning hatred.

''I love you John Watson. I'd trade the whole world for you.'' He whispers.

''I love you too, Sherlock Holmes.'' I reply, a smile playing on my features before I kiss him. Suddenly, my mobile begins to sound. I look at it. Lestrade. But what could he want? I answer the phone, the sound of my ringtone ceases to echo as I do so.

''Hello? Lestrade?'' I say. My eyes slowly widen, and my eyebrows furrow as I take in every word Lestrade quickly warbles at me. After he's finished speaking, he hangs up rather quickly and I'm left listening to the beeping of an abandoned call.

''Who was it?'' Sherlock inquires. I look at him.

''It's Mycroft. He's in the hospital. Sherlock. He tried to kill himself.''

_A/N:_

_What's a good Sherlock fic without the trademark cliffhanger? Thanks for reading. This chapter was meant to be something entirely different but when I sat down to type it, it ended up being this~ Sorry if it's too cheezy, I made it up as I went along. PLEASE REVIEW~~~_

_SH_


	9. Chapter 9

Ch.9

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if to say, '_Like he'd do that. Why would you lie, John?' _But when he read the seriousness of my expression, his face went blank. To any other person, Sherlock may be using no expression at all; but when I look into those eyes, I see the surprise. The terror. The confusion. Emotions other people think Sherlock is incapable of feeling I see swimming in his eyes. He notices, and looks down so I can no longer make out what he's thinking. What he must be feeling.

He pulls in a shaky breath as his hands grip at his hair, pulling it so tightly I think for a minute he may rip it all out. His lips move quickly as if he's trying to say something, as if he thinks he's saying something, though no words come to the surface. He sits there before standing up and walking out of the room, pushing things off dressers and shelves before throwing his head back and yelling, ''That selfish bastard!''

Two official-looking people stood guard outside Mycroft's hospital room. There was a man and a woman. The man, whose face was stern and stoic, watched us-me- as we- I- approached the room. They must have recognized me however, because as I reached the door he let me stroll right in. No-one can see him, but Sherlock strides silently behind me. Though he refused to accompany me while I attended his funeral, Sherlock immediately followed me as I left for the hospital. He walks with his eyes locked on the walls, as if he's trying to figure out where he is. Though I know it's because he doesn't want me to meet his eyes. Because if I do, I'll read his expression. I'll know what he's feeling. And that, to Sherlock Holmes, is the greatest weakness.

Mycroft lays broken and depressingly in the hospital bed. He stares straight ahead, not acknowledging me as I enter the room. The girl I noticed at Sherlock's funeral sits in the chair next to the bed, gazing at Mycroft with a certain look in her eyes. Admiration? Love? No. Surely it's disappointment. I can't help but notice the differences between Anthea and this new assistant. She look out for Mycroft obviously, based on the expression she's giving him. And she actually looks as if she cares. Anthea would do nothing but peck at her Blackberry, no words spoken unless she was spoken to.

''John.'' Mycroft mumbles. His voice cracks minutely as he speaks, giving me the impression that he hasn't spoken in a while. Something is definitely wrong.

''Mycroft…?'' I reply when he ceases to say anything else.

''How is it that you don't mourn.'' He says. It's a question, though his voice is so monotone and slow that you would hardly be able to tell the difference.

''What do you mean?'' I ask. _Because Sherlock came back as a ghost just for me, so I'm not missing anything,_ didn't exactly sound like a good answer.

He looks at me as if I've said something terrible. As if he can't believe I'd actually have to ask. As if he believes I've forgotten Sherlock all together.

''What do _**you**_ mean, Doctor Watson?'' He asks, the state of his voice matching the surprised expression on his face. I stay silent; unsure of what to say. ''I suppose you haven't noticed my brother's absence? You do know you had a flat mate who just **died**, right?'' The anger floods in his eyes. ''Remember? My brother? My little brother. Who I was supposed to protect.'' He looks down as he cries, as if he refuses to let me see him as his walls shatter down around him.

Watching Mycroft fall apart like this is killing me. I feel so selfish. He's sitting here crying, after he tried to kill himself, and I get to go home with the little brother he's certain he's lost. I suddenly hate myself.

''Mycroft… It's-''

''Don't you dare say it's all okay, John, it isn't now, and it never has been. That's all people have been telling me lately, _it's alright, oh it'll be okay. _My baby brother is dead and it's all my fault.'' He raises his hands to his face.

I am suddenly aware that Sherlock is still standing next to me. I look at him, as if I'm trying to find some sort of solution to all this in his eyes. His eyes are locked on the broken fragment of a person that is Mycroft. He's biting his lip; obviously just as careful about his emotions as his brother. I can almost feel the choked feeling swimming around him as he suppresses his tears. And that hurts my heart worse.

''I'm sorry…'' I choke out the words as I stand and turn, ''I have to go…''

And I rush out of the room just as the small beeps issuing from the machine next to Mycroft turn to one, solitary whistle.

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading! PLEASE REVIEW! I want to know how I'm doing with this! I really do._

_And sorry about not updating in a while; I haven't been sure what to write. But I finally got it figured out. So I hope you enjoyed it~ 3 3 3_


	10. Chapter 10

Ch.10

Immediately I was back at the bedside. Mycroft lay with his head drooped to one side, his eyes still slightly open, the tears he had shed as his heart stopped rolled, lost, down his cheek. Sherlock stood beside me. I could hear his breath in my ear, feel it, warm, against my neck. He was breathing hard and loud, his eyes locked on the figure of his older brother. His lips moved just as they had before we left, forming words which never left his mind. He sunk to his knees. His hands fell limply on the ground, his eyes darted up at the body before glancing back at the floor, his obsidian curls fell lifelessly around his face, hiding the emotion he usually controlled rather well.

I watched as his walls crumbled around him. Just as I had for Mycroft. It hurt, having to watch something so horrible, so heart wrenching, so… frightening. Though that may not be an adjective anyone else is likely to use for a situation such as this, it's simply the only one that fits. Frightening. I am frightened.

Just as his spidery hands lift up to his face, another hand, though obviously not his own, finds his shoulder. He looks up quickly, his curls bouncing. I look too, and just as I do, the image of Mycroft appears before us. It's almost as if he's simply conjured up by the emotion filling the room. He stands, his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, his eyes watching his little brother's every movement, the end of his lips curled into a welcoming smile. Sherlock stands, hesitating for a moment, unsure of whether he should trust his eyes or not, then clasps against Mycroft, his arms wrapping around his brother's waist, a sound which combines laughter and sobs, escaped his mouth.

I watch. This, I do not find frightening. Though it is a rather strange thing for them to do. In life, they hated each other, they were constantly at each other's throats. But now- after the death of both of them, they act like… what's the word… friends, I suppose? People bound by a certain state of mind, though the mental attraction is not usually shown physically, causing most to believe the bond is merely a strange myth. But unravel the quirks and problems given along with the bondage, and wa-la, you have two friends. Friends which have known each other for as long as they can remember, friends who loved each other enough to care after death. Brothers.

But just as he had appeared, Mycroft had left. Not as abruptly though. He simply unraveled himself from the arms of his little brother, smiled once more, and faded. Slowly and strangely, he faded.

And Sherlock and I were left alone in the hospital room of Mr. Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man. The British Government. The man who cared slightly more often than not.

_A/N:_

_So, so sorry for not updating in a while. And even more sorry for giving you such a short and cheezy chapter. I must admit, this is not my best work, I wrote it slightly rushed. But please review. Tell me what I did wrong, what I did right, what you think, whatever. Just review._


	11. Chapter 11

Ch. 11

I tried to help him. I really did. But it seemed as if nothing could assist Sherlock with his depression.

Many people had attended the funeral of Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock being one of them. As reluctant as he was to attend his own funeral, he attended his brother's with no hesitation. He sulked in my shadow as we entered the church. Honestly it was rather packed, though only a couple of people were recognizable to me. Sherlock eyed all the people as we crossed through the crowd, and they all watched me, though some stared strangely at the spot where Sherlock drifted after me, though I'm sure their eyes saw nothing of him. As we approached the casket, I heard Sherlock exhale a long, quivering breath.

I stopped as the cold face of Mycroft Holmes came into view. Thought his eyes were closed, I felt as if he was staring up at me. I could almost feel his cold china blue eyes peering into my skull. At my side, Sherlock took one glance at Mycroft and closed his eyes. He bit his lip and furrowed his eye brows. When his eyes were again open, they were peering with a newly discovered interest.

Suddenly, Lestrade is at my side, opposite Sherlock. His gray hair looks somewhat grayer, his brown eyes appear sunken, and the lines on his face show more obviously than usual. Before I have time to react his mouth opens and words begin to spill out.

''I… I didn't even get to tell him I loved him.'' He says as if to himself. And if that surprised me, it completely blew my mind when Sherlock whispered in response,

''**Neither did I.''**

-_FLASHBACK- _

A nine-year-old Sherlock Holmes hits the floor as the man's hand comes in contact with his pale skin. The man, of course, is his father. His hand hovers immediately over his cheek, where a red handprint is already becoming quite visible. The man shouts abuse at the boy, though Sherlock is unable to make out the words. Nor does he **want** to make out the words. They aren't going to help him. They won't be any comfort. They'll only stab him in the back as soon as he drops his guard, as soon as he lets them in.

As the man's voice rumbles to a halt, he strides away, leaving Sherlock broken and alone on the floor. Though all the lights were on, Sherlock felt as if he were in stark darkness. He found that it scared him quite tremendously; being alone in the pitch dark, even if it was imagined.

_It's ridiculous,_ he thinks to himself,_ it's positively ridiculous to fear an inanimate thing such as the dark. It can't touch me, it can't look at me, it cannot harm me. So why does it scare me?_

He drags his boney knees up to his chest, and wraps his arms around them. The angry red handprint on his cheek burns- the pain is still fresh though it's been a while since it appeared. His spidery fingers gently dab at It, though it certainly doesn't help, and the pain does anything but ease his troubled mind.

''What did you do this time, Sherly?'' An obnoxious voice echoes down the hall towards Sherlock. At the sound of it, Sherlock can almost picture the sneer playing on Mycroft's face as he strides down the hall towards him. Though the voice is coated in sarcasm, Sherlock also notices another emotion dripping from his brother's voice. Disappointment, maybe?

Though he heard him coming, Sherlock couldn't help but wince at the appearance of his older brother. He's still wearing his school uniform, which is technically just a suit consisting of black pants, a white button-up, and a black jacket topped with the school's coat of arms. Sherlock draws back slightly as Mycroft approaches him, but Mycroft only gives him a queer voice and says, ''Come on Sherly. I'm not hurting you, you know that.''

Slowly, Mycroft lifts Sherlock up by a scrawny arm up to his feet. The young boy stares up at his brother, who is far taller than he, and almost taller than their father. Sherlock's blue eyes gleam from behind a curtain of messy curls, which hang down in his face. Mycroft looks into those curious eyes, and can't help but notice how starved the boy's face appears under his mess of stark curls. Sherlock's face, even as a child, was rather angular, his cheek bones protruded out among his features, making the hollows of his face appear darker and more noticeable.

Mycroft sighs and lifts Sherlock up, carrying him in a way which can only be described as bridal-style. He carried the boy rather easily, for he was as light as a rag doll, and brought him into a bathroom by his room. Once there, he say Sherlock on the bathtub, and had him sit still as he got bandages from the medicine cabinet under the sink. Sherlock sat still, just as Mycroft had told him to. He knew he could trust his brother when it came to this. This wasn't the first midnight-trip-to-the-medicine-cabinet after all.

Mycroft kneeled in front of Sherlock, cupping his face in his left hand, and began dabbing at the handprint on his face with a cotton ball soaked in peroxide. Sherlock winced slightly as the wet cotton came in contact with his skin. He bit his lip and stared helplessly into the concentrated eyes of his brother.

''Does it burn?'' Mycroft asked. Sherlock didn't answer, he merely continued to peer into Mycroft's china-blue eyes. Mycroft ignored it and instead focused on Sherlock's cheek. It was worse closer up, far worse. It was apparent that Father really had given him hell this time. At a distance, all you can see is the outline of a large handprint, slightly tinged red. But while closer up, you see an angry red print, and even the scratches from the man's nails; marks which usually went unnoticed. There were a few other less-needy 'battle wounds' on the young boy, but his brother took care of them none the less.

After they had finished, and Mycroft had stored the medical supplies back into the cabinet, he carried Sherlock to his room, and sat on the bed next to him. Almost immediately, Sherlock's head was drooped onto Mycroft's shoulder, his eyelids feeling very heavy.

''Why does Father hate me.'' Sherlock whispered in a barely audible voice into the darkness. Mycroft sat there, slightly surprised, not knowing what to do or say.

''I can't answer that Sherlock.''

Sherlock's tiny hand gripped at Mycroft's sleeve, his face burrowed into it. Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's obsidian curls, and with that, the young boy was asleep.

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading! Please reviewwww. Also, I'm sorry if this chapter was too stupid and or cheezy. Really. If you want to complain, send me a PM or a review. _


	12. The Author Who Gave Up

Hey. So, for all of you people who actually read this and were expecting some sort of an update, I have to say you won't be getting it. I've pretty much just given up on this- I don't think I'd be able to finish it. I gave up on it for a while for various reasons- switching of fandoms and writer's block, etc, etc. So the other day I decided I'd read through it and see if I'd be able to maybe go ahead and finish it; however, my writing style has changed so drastically since the time when I wrote this that I've decided I just won't be able to finish it. Very sorry, truly sorry, to those of you who enjoyed this. Thank you for the reviews, they meant a lot. I will most likely be writing more Sherlock fics soon, seeing as how I have so much free time, so keep your eyes out.

Again I'm very sorry, I hope I wasn't too much of a disappointment. :p


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